Undress These Beautiful Lies
by blue.rose.spobette
Summary: "It was the hardest thing I ever did, yet here I am: still standing. Despite what the songs say, my heart is still beating. I'm still breathing. And that was the ultimate test. You didn't break me, Toby. And neither can anyone else." - 3-Shot. Alternate 3B ending. Spencer is willing to risk everything to bring "A" down, but Toby won't let her face the danger alone. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**PROMPT:** _Spence has a dangerous plan to catch -A, once and for all but toby's protective instincts kick in and he doesnt think its a good idea so he goes with her. Toby and spencer together on a 'mission'_

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_**A/N:** So, I'm trying really hard to write this from a perspective that won't interfere too much with my Season 4 story that I started writing. I really don't want to crossover into that territory and ruin the course of that plot for myself. So this is sort of an AU of the end of 3B, but it will still accomplish what the prompt asks for. It will need some groundwork laid out so I can set the stage, so it will probably be like a three-shot._

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**UNDRESS THESE BEAUTIFUL LIES**

Jason DiLaurentis had never been very good at playing the role of the older brother. He'd teased Alison mercilessly throughout the entire course of their childhood and her short-lived teenage years, unable – or perhaps just _unwilling_ – to truly appreciate the concept of family and its subsequent meaning of looking out for one another.

If only he had paid more heed to the sort of trouble she was getting into. If he had opened his goddamn blood-shot stoner eyes for two seconds, perhaps he would have seen a silent cry for help.

Instead he pushed her and taunted her just as badly as whoever had chosen to ultimately end her life.

But he had something of a clean slate when it came to Spencer. Though he had only known about their true relation for a short time, he had found himself unwittingly clinging to the only family that was viably in his reach. His parents were off doing God-knows-what. He rarely spoke to them these days, and had positively no idea what they were doing or even what country they were in. Not that it mattered much, anyway. They hadn't had a true, authentic conversation since Ali's disappearance. Every exchange was superficially succinct, and oftentimes was more painful than simply ignoring one another.

But Spencer was here, in Rosewood. She had grown up over the years and somehow branched away from the family tree, denouncing most of the qualities that made a Hastings a _Hastings_. She'd been one of the only people to bother reaching out to him when he needed it most, and it was his turn to repay the favor.

So when Emily had tipped him off in a text that Spencer had just finished spending the better part of the past two weeks in Radley Sanatorium on a volunteer basis, he did not even think twice. He had packed his bags with what little he had to fill them, and his own safety be damned, had immediately hopped on 476 North to return to the tiny town with which he had developed the notoriously intense love-hate relationship.

He did not even stop at home before marching up to her door. It was no surprise to find that neither Melissa nor her parents were at home; it was rare that they dropped what they were doing to actually check in on the youngest Hastings.

He felt his heart contract tightly with sympathy. This was precisely why he and Spencer needed one another.

The niceties of knocking escaped him as the adrenaline rush began to kick in. He was barging through the back door like he owned the place, ready to launch into a diatribe about how furious he was with her for not calling him when she clearly needed his help.

But when he saw her curled up on the couch beneath an afghan, her usually pristine hair ruffled into an unkempt mane and her ivory skin sallow and gaunt beyond recognition, his voice got caught in his throat.

She looked toward him, her toffee colored eyes hollow and unfeeling. When his identity began to dawn upon her, however, a new light seemed to flash dimly in their depths, like a candle lost out at sea.

"Jason," she breathed, "you shouldn't be here."

He pressed his mouth into a thin line of concern, taking a hesitant seat beside her. "We're family. Where else should I be?"

She made a barking noise in the back of her throat, akin to a bitter laugh. "How about far away, keeping your distance from Mona and her band of bastards?"

"I can handle Mona," he insisted waspishly. "I'm here to make sure you're okay."

"Define 'okay'," she declared, a dark, sardonic smile marring her pretty face. If he was being honest, the foreign expression gave him a bit of a chill.

"Spencer," he began impatiently, "the last time I talked to you before I left, you were bound and determined to completely destroy the integrity of Ali's memory. I was mad at you for a while, but I've had a lot of time to think while I've been away." He studied her face carefully, taking particular note of how her eyes flickered away from his as he continued. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm starting to think something happened. Something that was bad enough to change everything you ever used to believe."

She did not reply, but simply strung her fingers together anxiously in her lap, her eyes cast firmly downward at the rug in front of the hearth. Upon instinct, he reached out to take one of her unusually blistered hands, holding it tightly in his own as if to send her strength through this simple contact. "You can trust me, Spencer."

There was a pregnant pause. She took a deep, labored breath and exhaled sharply before she spoke.

"Toby's dead."

Jason's internal organs did a bizarre sort of cartwheel, as if he'd just undergone a loop-the-loop on a roller coaster. Words escaped him for only a moment; once he found his voice, he asked what was probably the most insulting question possible.

"Are you sure?"

She did not scoff or roll her eyes at the inquiry, as he had rather expected. Instead, she puckered her lips to the side thoughtfully, pulling her hand away from his embrace. Her arms curled around her midsection shakily, as though she were trying to retain some dwindling amount of body heat.

"No."

Her response perplexed him, despite the fact that he'd been the one to ask the pathetic question in the first place.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…I saw the body. I was one hundred percent sure it was his, but then Mona came to see me and smashed apart the puzzle I'd been piecing together in my head." She sighed dramatically. "I don't know. Maybe I really am just going crazy."

"Maybe you are," he said vaguely, studying the way the flames danced across one another in the fireplace. "But sometimes just the right _amount _of crazy is what it takes to finally see things rationally. Not everything fits into logical little pigeonholes. Sometimes you need to be out of your mind to get out of the box."

He could feel her gaze burning into the side of his head, but he did not meet her eyes. Instead he continued to focus forward in the thick air of quietude, waiting for her to speak.

"Thank you," she said quietly, "for not sugar coating it, like everyone else has."

There was a moment of comfortable silence that settled between the two of them, before he asked the question that had been itching relentlessly at the back of his mind.

"So what are you going to do?"

Their eyes locked together for a moment, pale teal mingling with soft mocha. Then, at long last, she replied.

"If you can't beat them, join them," she whispered.

He knew he shouldn't ask her to elaborate. He had a pretty good idea of what she was intending to do, and it would probably be best for her to spare him the details. The more he knew about her plan, the less he was going to like it.

But he had never been very good about following gut instincts.

"What are you getting at?" he murmured slowly, his voice laced with uncertainty.

She rose to her feet, and for the first time since he arrived, he noticed how much weight she'd lost. In truth, there wasn't much to be lost in the first place – her hoodie and yoga pants were hanging limply off her body like she was a pre-teen wearing her sister's two-sizes-too-big hand-me-downs. She looked sickly; and the sight made his heart ache like a newly formed bruise.

"I convinced Mona to let me in," she explained hastily, reaching beneath the couch cushion to unearth a black zip-up sweatshirt. She draped it over the front of her body to give him the proper idea, and when he did not react the way she wanted, she began to ramble once more. "I'm going to tear the A-Team apart from the inside out. I just have to figure out what she has on everyone and completely eradicate her leverage."

There was a moment in which neither of them spoke, simply staring the other down to gauge the reaction. They had never explicitly revealed their knowledge of 'A' to the other, despite the fact that they had both been hinting at it for the past year. It had been something of a _'don't ask, don't tell'_ scenario in which neither wanted to be the first to bring it up; but they both knew, without asking, that the other was well aware of the team's existence.

"I know you've always been a bit of a risk-taker, Spence," he started slowly, his eyes still locked on the onyx-colored material she held against her chest. "But this sounds pretty dangerous."

She laughed darkly, and the sound was devoid of any actual mirth. "Jason, Mona has taken everything from me. My boyfriend is dead. My friends are strangers." He searched the depths of her eyes for a sign of ambivalence, but he found none. The confidence that emanated from her soul was brimming with frightening conviction, and he actually felt a layer of gooseflesh pop out along the lengths of his arms.

She took a deep breath. "What do I really have to lose?"

* * *

The sound of the door shutting next door shook him from his reverie, and he was launched violently back to Earth. He watched silently from the window as the blond man stepped out of the house and traversed across the shared yard space, eager to return to his own home. The phantom backed carefully out of the window's frame, as silent and undetectable as a black cat slinking into the shadows, his breath hitched in his lungs.

Things were about to get very ugly very quickly, if he did not think fast. He had not expected Jason to be home so soon. He had not considered a course of action for this event. Part of him knew he should run; but the other part was tired of evading anyone and everyone that could possibly contribute to his cause.

Before he had time to formulate a conceivable plan in his frazzled brain, the door was swinging open. Jason stepped inside and moved to flick on the light switch, his puzzled expression visible even in the dark as it failed to comply.

"Well that's just perfect," he muttered to himself, dropping his keys unceremoniously on the coffee table with a loud clatter. He collapsed into a sitting position on the couch, cradling his head in his hands thoughtfully. Something was troubling him with a vengeance, and he was clearly struggling to make sense of the frenzy of thoughts that rivaled even Speed Racer's greatest hits.

The man in hiding chose this moment to step out of the shadows and into the beam of moonlight that peaked between the curtains, dropping his hood to reveal his identity before the elder's panic set in.

Jason's eyes met his, and there was a moment of silence in which they competed in a quiet staring contest of cerulean exchange. If Spencer's brother was alarmed by his presence, he did not indicate it.

"What are you doing here?" the blond asked with quiet neutrality, as though it were as commonplace as running into someone he didn't quite want to see at the grocery store.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, taking a hesitant step closer when he was sure Jason would not act out in hostility. "I didn't have anywhere else to go. Mona thinks I'm dead, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Jason rubbed his hand across his mouth wearily. "_She_ thinks you're dead, too, you know." He didn't have to specify. The man in the moonlight was quite aware that he was referring to Spencer.

He sighed heavily as the guilt weighed down upon him, and nodded in quiet agreement. "I know."

Jason's jaw twitched involuntarily, his eyes burning daggers into the younger's frame. "I've never seen her so broken, Toby. I hope to God there's a reasonable explanation for all of this."

"There is," Toby reassured quickly. He wanted to approach the older man to close some of the awkward distance, but he feared that the space was all that was keeping Jason from delivering a well deserved right-hook to his jaw. "I'm trying to get enough information to destroy Mona."

"And you have to squat in _my _house to do that?" Jason asked peevishly.

"There's been valuable ammunition under Alison's floor boards before," Toby reasoned gently, and he knew Jason would understand precisely what he meant. "Forgive me. I needed to dig a little deeper."

He took a deep breath. "And Spencer?"

Her name always struck him in the heart like some well-aimed arrow puncturing its bulls-eye. He tried to ignore the dull ache that ensued.

"I'm doing this so that I can protect her."

Jason's eyes narrowed immediately, his face a mask of incredulity. "You're doing a _great_ job," he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Toby stepped closer to the window, peeling back the curtain to gaze in the direction of the Hastings house. He could see her traipsing into the kitchen for a glass of water, her appearance as disheveled as ever. This always stung like some sort of collage of paper cuts. "I understand it looks bad," he offered hoarsely, "but it was the only way."

Jason followed his eyes for a moment before snapping his vision back to him, the cogs locking into place. "You've been watching over her."

Toby nodded silently. "When I can. It was harder when she was away."

Jason's glare was like pure electricity now, and Toby literally felt a shiver travel down the length of his spine at the intensity of the elder's menacing eyes.

"Away? You know where 'away' was, don't you?"

The venom with which he asked the question gave Toby pause. He turned to survey Jason's expression, a morbid sort of curiosity bubbling in his chest.

"She was committed to Radley, Toby. And after her psychiatric evaluation was over, she stayed. Willingly."

It was as though somebody had reached into his chest cavity and squeezed his heart with such force that it had begun to bleed openly. Involuntary tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he turned back toward the window to hide his reaction from the blond man behind him.

"All the more reason to get rid of Mona, once and for all," he declared with as much confidence as he could muster, though the falter in his voice betrayed his conviction.

There was another pregnant pause.

"She's planning to do the same thing, you know," Jason began quietly. Much of the poison had dwindled from his tone, and Toby was uncomfortably certain that he had seen the pain in his expression. "She joined the A-Team. She thinks she can take Mona down, all by herself."

Toby spun around to face him once more, all other thoughts wiped clean from the forefront of his mind. He studied Jason thoroughly, assessing the legitimacy of his claim. When the man didn't even so much as blink, the gravity of the announcement began to settle in Toby's stomach like sour milk.

"She can't," he breathed. "She'll get herself killed."

Jason took a deep breath, standing slowly to join Toby at the window. He, too, watched across the yard to see the dull roar of the fire dimming in the Hastings living room, his own protective instincts rearing up to join Toby's.

When the blond man spoke once more, his voice was as slick as ice.

"Well, then I guess it's time you put all the ammo you've been collecting to the test."

**_TO BE CONTINUED_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** I'm sorry that it's been forever. I'm trying to work through and finish everything that has been lying dormant the past several months. I figured this one was a good place to start (or end, I suppose) since it is only built to be a three-shot. _

_So here's the second chapter. I'm hoping to post the third tomorrow, but we shall see what my muse has in store. _

_Please enjoy._

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It wasn't until after midnight that she left the house. And had they not been paying specific attention to her every micro-movement, the entire situation would have easily played out right beneath their noses, undetected. She had slipped out of the side door and immediately masked herself in shadow, the hood of the notorious black sweatshirt pulled high over her head to hide the pale luminescence of her once-lively porcelain skin.

They had been prepared. They had slinked out of the backdoor of the DiLaurentis house, careful to mind the persistent squeak it often emitted at the slightest of touches, and crept into the night. The sky was blanketed with a layer of clouds, obscuring both the moon and its harem of stars into oblivion.

Jason folded the hood above his own head as they trekked in meticulous silence behind her, using random shrubbery and ostentatious lawn decorations for additional cover.

Toby continued to glance at him surreptitiously, both impressed and intimidated by the way the elder had mastered the art of unprecedented stealth. He considered, very briefly, that Mona had been right to fear him. The NAT Club may have operated under the guise of ordinary perversion, but it had become quite clear in the past several months that their talents were not limited to unsolicited video production.

He was rather wary about allowing the man to accompany him on this particular endeavor. But Jason was intent upon making sure his sister was safe. And because of this very imperative shared interest on both their parts, Toby was inclined to offer him at least some modicum of trust in the matter. If it came to blows, the man would undoubtedly shed all pretense and go to any lengths to protect his own flesh and blood. And that, alone, was reason enough for Toby to welcome his attendance.

The ever-growing veil of darkness continued in its ambivalent attempt to both aid them and put them at a disadvantage, providing them cover on the occasion that Spencer glanced over her shoulder but also impeding their line of sight as they attempted to follow a safe distance behind. There were several times in which Toby had nearly lost her thinning silhouette in the void of the night, counting on mere instinct that they were continuing in the proper direction.

Despite all of his best efforts to repress any sort of emotional reaction to the events transpiring before his very eyes, his heart had accelerated into a dizzying frenzy. He had been relatively successful the past several weeks in rationalizing his behavior – even the darkest, most despicable of choices he had made since accepting the fate of the black hoodie. Had somehow been able to keep every emotion locked tightly in a tiny box buried deep within his subconscious, filed away until further notice. Tucked into the cavernous recesses of his mind until he accomplished what he set out to do. If – and only if – he could provide her with the one thing she needed most: unshakeable, reliable safety. It was in that event, alone, that he could allow himself any sentimental memoirs. But until then, he needed to remain sharp and vigilant, his concentration set, his eye on the prize.

That had been the plan. And immersing himself in mission after mission had served the adequate purpose of keeping him distracted.

Until the unceremonious surprise meeting with Jason DiLaurentis tonight. The blond man's tether to Spencer had been sufficient to puncture the illusion he had so masterfully fashioned. The concern and fear laced in Jason's voice as he spoke about the ever-disintegrating fate of his sister had created a ripple effect that shattered even Toby's well-constructed wall of temporary apathy. The apprehension and humanity that swam in the sea-green depths of the elder's eyes had awoken the dormant beast that lay within. It was as though Toby were finally staring into a smooth pane of glass after only assessing his reflection in a distorted set of trick mirrors all this time.

The weight of the guilt and shame he had so successfully repressed was beginning to push upon him from all sides, suffocating him with the noose he had spun together himself with his own calloused hands. He had made his own bed – and now he was meant to lie in it.

It wasn't until they fell into a silent squat behind a parked car to watch her hop – with some effort, due to the extensive muscle deterioration – the fence that barred Rosewood Cemetery from the abandoned street, that they finally spoke.

"Where is she going?" Jason asked quietly, his voice coming out in short, heady breaths.

Toby braced himself with one trembling hand against the cold steel of the Mazda in front of them, attempting to ignore the growing lump in his throat.

"The mausoleum," he uttered darkly.

Jason's sickened surprise was evident even out of Toby's peripherals.

"Ali's mausoleum?"

"Yes, Ali's – among others," Toby countered with more animosity than intended. It was just like a DiLaurentis to identify a shared burial plot with their own notoriety.

"You know what I mean," Jason returned, a thick rope of venom preceding his own words. "The more important issue is _why_."

Toby pursed his lips together, wishing he didn't need to divulge such prominent trade secrets to a man he hardly knew – the alternative, however, would be to lose his only ally. And that was not something he was willing to negotiate in a situation as delicate as this.

"Mona's been known to set up shop there, once or twice."

Jason released a disgusted growl from somewhere deep in his diaphragm, bolting upright. Toby grabbed onto his shoulder before he reached full height, yanking him back down.

"You can't just expect us to sit here," Jason spat. "We have to do something."

"Correction:_ I_ have to do something."

The brevity with which the elder's face fell was almost theatrical in nature, and somewhere deep down, Toby felt the minute tickling urge to laugh. Understanding resonated behind his teal-colored irises, and at once he was shaking his head with fervor.

"If you go in alone, how can I trust you to do what needs to be done?"

Toby turned to face him – really, truly face him – for the first time since they'd left the house. Jason's accusatory gaze was all but burning lasers in his direction, clear cynicism and apprehension marring his features. When Toby spoke next, he attempted to convey every layer of ingenuity that he could muster.

"Because trust is the only thing that's going to save her."

She was assessing the outside of the mausoleum when he caught up with her, tracing her gloved fingers across the cracks and fissures that corrupted its foundation. She paused at the door handle itself, her hand resting delicately against the glittering steel. There seemed to be an unwelcome debate happening inside her head, and he could see it in the way her bottom lip so characteristically quivered at the wheels turning in her brain.

She was scared.

He approached her from the side, wanting to avoid both giving her a start and being required to awkwardly announce his presence. None of the options on the table seemed ideal, of course – either way, his sudden posthumous appearance was going to set her off. It didn't matter whether her reaction was based in fear or in anger – no matter how he announced himself, she was going to be suddenly crushed under the weight of confusion and betrayal.

He abhorred it. But he anticipated it.

What he didn't expect, however, was the hollow stare she provided him with. It caused his breath to hitch unexpectedly in his lungs, seeing for the first time that the once-prominent fire behind her gaze had been reduced to nothing more than fizzling embers. Her glassy expression reminded him fleetingly of the buck's head that hung mounted above the mantel in his father's living room: forever watchful but never seeing.

Unblinking, her mocha eyes casually gave him a once-over. She seemed to be in deep concentration, as if working out a difficult mathematical equation in her head. A gale wind from the impending storm swept between them, fluttering into his hood and blowing it back to its rightful place at his shoulders. He was suddenly unmasked and vulnerable before her, but her expression did not change. She merely cocked her head to one side, much like a cat was wont to do when studying a particularly fascinating display.

The odd behavior sent chills prickling up and down the length of his spine. It was a behavior that was so very…_Mona_.

"Toby," she declared matter-of-factly, her voice escaping her throat with just as much unexpected apathy as her analytical stare.

He gulped hard, nearly choking on the lump that had lodged itself in his windpipe. Hesitantly, he took a step toward her. "Spencer, don't do this."

Her gaze flickered away once more as she returned to her study of the handle in her grasp. It was as though she had already forgotten he was there.

"Spencer," he said again, inserting himself between her figure and the door. She dropped her hand at once, seeming almost startled by his gall. He was so close to her now that he could smell the faint remnants of her perfume, long forgotten but lingering on her unlaundered clothes. It nearly broke his concentration, but he fought to surge onward. "Listen to me…what you're doing – what you're trying to do – she's going to see right through you."

"Let her," Spencer spat, avoiding his eyes. "I'm not afraid of Mona."

"I'm not talking about Mona," he insisted darkly.

She made a sort of barking noise in the back of her throat, like a laugh that had gone sour. "You mean Red Coat? I can handle her, too."

"No," Toby growled. "You can't."

It was as though his words had burned her. She leapt backward suddenly, her eyes blazing with a dark intensity that was entirely foreign to him.

"I handled _you_, didn't I?" she challenged vapidly, her lifeless words nearly drowned out by the rumbling of thunder overhead. "It was the hardest thing I ever did, yet here I am: still standing. Despite what the songs say, my heart is still beating. I'm still breathing. And that was the ultimate test. You didn't break me, Toby. And neither can anyone else."

She had raised her arm to once more grab at the handle, but he caught her en route, his quivering grip encircling her wrists. She seemed momentarily alarmed at their sudden proximity, and he was reminded quite hauntingly of their reunion outside the police station last spring. She had been so furious with him for toying with her emotions – for tricking her into thinking he didn't love her. But as she had moved to slap him, he had held fast and pulled her close, kissing her with an intensity he hadn't even realized he possessed.

The memory burned deep in the core of his ribcage. She, too, seemed to be undergoing some unwelcome bout of déjà vu, for her breath caught in her lungs.

"I never _wanted_ to break you," he murmured quietly, trying to stay focused though their closeness was rather dizzying. "But I needed you to believe that I was with Mona. That I was gone. That I was dead. It was the only way to – "

"To what?" she hissed, her eyes gleaming in the streak of lightening that flogged the sky. "'These violent delights have violent ends,' Toby – 'and in their triumph die, like fire and powder'."

She was deflecting with poetry and prose, creating a guard of her own – much like the one he had constructed in recent weeks. The attempt was feeble, however, and he saw right through her.

"Are you _actually_ quoting Shakespeare right now?" he demanded, torn between affection for her unfailing intellect and annoyance at her continuous detachment from the conversation at hand. "Spencer, I need you to listen to me – "

"I _am_ listening," she interrupted coldly.

"Then I need you _hear_ me."

A quiet thrumming began to echo throughout the cemetery as the rainfall commenced, and soon he was blinking moisture from his eyelashes.

"Don't go in there. Please. Whatever it is that you feel you need to do – whatever you're trying to accomplish – let me take the bullet for you. I'll handle whatever you need me to. Just please…_don't do this."_

Something flickered behind her russet eyes, then, and he was sure the careful curtain she had drawn over her emotions was fluttering with the breeze. She was losing control.

He chose to surge on while he had her attention. Another crack of lightening boomed nearby and the drizzles soon turned to torrents. He could feel his hair clinging to his forehead and the pools of water forming in his shoes, but he did not care.

"Do you remember that afternoon in your bedroom?" he persisted hoarsely, the memory enveloping him with inexplicable warmth. "Before Ian and the bell tower. When I told you I'd be there for you, no matter what you needed?"

Recognition dawned in her eyes, and she seemed to be quickly attempting to deflect the recollection back at him, much like the tennis expert she was. He ignored it.

"And you told me I was your safe place to land. You told me that you wanted me to stay safe."

She was squeezing her eyes shut now, shaking her head so violently that her own hood fell backwards from the momentum. The gauntness of her cheekbones up close gave him pause, but he did not allow himself to falter.

"And after all of that, you barely escaped from him that night. He almost killed you. And I wasn't there. You could have died, and I had no power to stop it. And I knew, from that point on, that no matter what it took, I would do anything to keep you safe."

She failed to choke back a reluctant sob, and it joined the chorus of the storm punctuating the air around them.

"I can't be your safe place to land, Spencer, without actually protecting you. Don't you understand?"

She made a weak attempt to pull her wrists out of his vice grip, but he held fast. It occurred briefly that he may be hurting her unintentionally, but he needed her to just hang in for a moment longer.

"I love you," he breathed, his voice breaking. "And because I love you, I decided a long time ago that I would do anything – _anything_ – to be that safe place for you. No matter what the cost."

The full meaning of this statement seemed to be coming at her like a barrage of gunfire, poking holes in her only remaining wall. And then, at long last, she collapsed against him in an exhausted heap, her frail arms encircling his waist in a grip so tight he was sure it required every ounce of her strength.

He allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy her embrace, during which a few stray tears escaped from beneath his eyelids. And then, with a considerable amount of effort, he forced himself to pull away.

"Listen very carefully," he murmured, taking her by the shoulders. "Jason is waiting for you in the street. Find him. Let him take you home."

"What are you going to do?" she asked tearfully, her cold hands finding the curve of his jawbone.

He took a deep breath.

"I'm going to take care of this."

Her caramel eyes darted back and forth between his, as if trying to deduce his hidden meaning. When she spoke, her voice was even and calculated, as if daring him to lie to her.

"And what exactly does that mean?"

The sound of a twig snapping caused both of them to jump. Even with the storm whirring all around them, they had both become creatures of hyper-vigilance over the past several months. They were accustomed to tuning into the small auditory details, however seemingly insignificant they may be.

She was stepping out of the shadows, golden hair somehow still falling into pristine curls across her shoulders despite the strength of the rainfall. The scarlet hood concealed her face, but he already knew who she was. He had known for weeks. Alison had all but left a goddamn flashing neon sign tucked beneath the floorboards of her bedroom, just waiting to be found.

"Go," he urged, pointing Spencer in the appropriate direction and pushing her none-too-gently.

"Toby – "

"I said _go_!" he shouted. Despite her initial hesitation, she did not wait to be told a third time. She was quickening her pace in the direction she came from, hardly pausing to look back.

He turned back to Red Coat, his jaw clenched in preparation. Still partially hidden by the cover of night, she stood there like a statue in the rain, unmoving.

"I'm done playing your games," he hollered, attempting to be heard above the din of the storm. "It ends here."

"Yes," she said quietly. "It does."

He could see, even through the sheet of moisture that separated them, that she was raising her arm in his direction.

"Toby!"

It was a masculine voice, this time, that shouted for him. He knew his ears were playing tricks on him, however. The source of the call was much further away than it seemed, carried in by the animosity of the wind.

He took a step back, instinctively, as the pieces began to lock into place. Her arm followed his movement, even as he struggled to gain a foothold in the elasticity of the mud beneath his shoes.

"Say hello to Mommy."

He felt it before he heard it. A sharp, burning sensation that began in his shoulder and sent spider web signals to every nerve ending in his body. It was like he had been impaled by a hot poker straight from the hearth. He was on fire, yet everything around him was as cold as ice.

The sudden weakness brought him to his knees. His fist locked onto a tuft of grass and he attempted to pull himself forward, but every part of him felt limp, drowned by the pain that pierced his back and rippled through him like an echo.

"Toby!"

It was that man's voice again. He could hear the sloshing of footfalls as the elder approached and threw himself onto the ground beside him. Toby could only barely make out the teal eyes swimming in and out of focus before him, but he made to grab at collar of his matching hoodie nonetheless.

"Spencer…"

"She's safe," he replied breathlessly, fumbling in his sweatshirt for something. "Toby, stay with me, man. Stay with me."

The darkness was closing in though, much like a sinkhole devouring everything in its path. Toby felt his eyes flutter shut against his will, and all that surrounded him became still.

Jason's voice sounded far away and distorted, like a bad signal coming in from an AM radio tuner.

"I need an ambulance. My friend – he's been shot."

The darkness swallowed him whole.

_**(TO BE CONTINUED)**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** All right. Final installment. A bit longer than I planned, but consider it an apology for making you wait. _

_See my author's note at the end. _

_PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW. I can't stress this enough. I don't get many reviews anymore, and you have no idea how much thoughtful reviews can actually help with my inspiration. _

_Thanks guys!_

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

Three hours, on an ordinary day, is wont to lapse easily, eclipsed by the rush to complete all necessary daily tasks within the confines of the remaining daylight. Most individuals are usually submerged in a race against time, wishing they could slow down the clock in order to achieve all that must be done in twenty-four hours.

But of course when the clock comes to a standstill of its own accord, people would sell their souls to pick up the pace once more. Minutes turn to hours, and your skin begins to crawl with anticipation, your heart ready to burst from your chest as you wait for something daunting and agonizing to come to a merciful end.

One hundred and seventy-eight minutes. An average college class would have concluded its agenda for the day. A commuter would be finished with their trek from Philadelphia to Harrisburg. A Tolkien fan could view the entirety of the cinematic version of _The Fellowship of the Ring. _

But it was apparently not ample time to complete the surgical procedure of removing a bullet and patching up all necessary wounds.

Toby had been in surgery for two hours and fifty-eight minutes, and the doctors had yet to give Jason and Spencer any follow-up details on his condition.

Jason hated hospitals. The eerie silence that suffocated each and every waiting room he had ever been in was enough to bring him to his knees. It was like being on the perpetual edge of a precipice, time stopping entirely for the sole purpose of torturing families and individuals in the most subtle and sinister of ways. The entire experience was akin to holding your breath, just waiting for the moment that you could finally exhale.

A family of three was huddled quietly in the corner of the sitting area, just behind them, crying softly as they held each other. Jason had been watching them periodically, his heart aching for them in his chest. He hoped that whatever tragedy was about to befall them would do so gently, for he could not stand the painful anticipation any more than they could. It was like watching somebody else's life flash before his eyes, and with everything else that weighed heavy on his mind, the presentation was enough to completely shatter his soul.

Spencer had been looking at them occasionally, too, her eyes dark with empathy and sadness. Jason knew precisely what she was thinking, because he was thinking the very same thing: that it was somehow sobering to see someone else going through the very same motions that they were, unashamed of displaying their sorrows to the rest of the world. He knew that she was jealous of them, to some degree. She had never been very good at sharing her emotions, or wearing them on her sleeve. She had always been rather private about what she was feeling. But he knew her well enough to understand that she wanted nothing more than to shelve her pride in this very moment and give into the utter desolation she was feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Despite his best intentions, there was little he could do to soothe her. She was restless, yet exhausted. Panicked, yet numb. She had spent the first hour or so on her feet, wearing a path in the carpet with her pacing, and depleting the majority of the hospital's coffee stock. Her head was held high, poised and collected, in a way that gave Jason eerie reminiscence of Veronica Hastings and her courtroom etiquette. It was a calmness that preceded a hurricane, her only remaining resolve being stretched to paper-thin proportions to keep her from collapsing entirely.

He had asked her if she wanted his chair multiple times. She had declined on every occasion. The movement was serving as a feeble albeit sufficient distraction, and as long as she was on her toes, she would feel some degree more prepared for whatever was about to happen.

And he felt completely and utterly useless to her, in every capacity, and had spent the better part of the previous hour wishing there was more that he could do.

Instead, he used much of their anxious silence to ruminate about everything that had happened earlier. The flash of red that darted past the mausoleum, visible even through the sheets of rain that partially obscured his vision. The image of Toby lying facedown in the mud, his hand reaching desperately for someone – anyone – to pull him out of his descent into darkness. But despite his fear, his primary concern had been Spencer. She was the first thing he had asked about, using what was likely to be his last breath to ensure her safety. It was astounding to Jason, who had never quite known what actual love looked like. It wasn't as though his parents had been a shining example, what with serial cheating and regular separation for business trips and impromptu cruises. And he had never really been in love, himself.

So it was sobering to see the horrified expression in Toby's eyes rapidly settle into a state of serenity at the one piece of news that he had been desperate to hear. And Jason wasn't sure he had ever seen somebody look so at peace in such a precarious moment, content to expend his last ounce of strength on worrying about the wellbeing of a loved one.

He hadn't been able to bring himself to tell Spencer how it had unfolded. He wasn't entirely sure it would help anything – in fact, he feared it would merely cripple what conviction she had left under the weight of the unfounded guilt she would most certainly feel. The tsunami of emotions that she had so meticulously locked away since Toby's disappearance, so as not to drown in the ocean of sorrow that threatened to yank her into the undertow. She was literally dangling by a thread, and he was not about to be the one caught holding the scissors.

In the second hour, a middle-aged female doctor approached the family behind them. In quiet undertones, though not entirely inaudibly, she announced that their father was in recovery and that he was going to make it. The transition of the nature of their tears was distinct, making a notable shift from dismay to relief. The mother was hugging her two children tightly to her frame, as if this proximity would keep them safe from the dangers of the outside world. As if her embrace would prevent anything this horrifying from ever happening to her loved ones again.

It was a rather beautiful sight to witness, really – a family on the brink of total devastation, finding the ray of hope cutting through the turbulent vicissitude of the storm. Having their faith win out against all odds.

But it had nearly incapacitated Spencer. She watched the scene unfold with unspoken envy glistening in her mocha eyes. She was torn between unbridled joy for the miracle of a saved life, and the despair that there may perhaps only be room for _one_ miracle tonight.

She turned to face him, her eyes shining with dark resignation. He reached for her without a word, and she silently crumpled into his lap, curling her entire frame into him like a child desperate to be cradled and consoled. He curled one arm around her back, soothingly rubbing her bony shoulder. The lack of flesh and meat beneath his hand was startling – she had lost so much weight that he could not help worrying. But he fought to keep his face impassive, rocking her gently from side to side to quiet her labored breathing. He could feel an unfamiliar burning in the corners of his eyes as he tried to hold both her and himself together simultaneously, finally feeling the bottom dropping out from beneath him.

"He'll be okay," he found himself chanting, though he hadn't the slightest idea of whether this vow had any actual clout. And though he wasn't entirely sure whether this dishonesty was the correct approach, he continued to repeat the words, like a broken record that could not be quieted.

It occurred to him only briefly that the sight of their embrace may appear unconventional to the odd onlooker, but he could not find the effort to care. Spencer was the only thing he had left, really. The closest thing that he had remaining in the realm of family. He needed her – and despite the fact that she had more people in her corner than he, she needed him, too. The majority of the Hastings clan had a proclivity for managing business matters at a distance, and that talent was frequently prone to extend, most unfortunately, to matters of the familial magnitude as well. Spencer was alone in her upbringing far more often than any teenage girl ought to be.

And Jason knew that this solitude came accompanied by a certain degree of loneliness. And, more tragically, the inclination to handle all personal obstacles without anyone's help. It wasn't in Spencer's nature to ask for aid, even when she needed it most desperately; and because of this, most people, even her closest friends, didn't typically recognize that she was teetering on the cusp of surrender. They had hardly noticed a majority of her life – and they had hardly noticed in the weeks leading up to Radley.

The only reason Jason recognized the warning signs, himself, was because so much of her own self-sufficient, self-sustained logic was imbedded in his instincts, too. They were cut from the same cloth in more ways than he could truthfully fathom, and as a result, he had come to learn a thing or two about discerning which of her buttons had been pressed and how to flip the switch back to its default settings.

After all, it takes one fragile, broken individual to effectively identify and fuse the fissures of another.

The next two hours passed no more quickly than the first, though being able to console her was easily more ideal than watching her pace. He was pretty sure she had nodded off on his shoulder a couple of times, if only for a few brief seconds. This brought him some semblance of relief, for it meant that she felt at least some modicum of security in their tiny armchair bubble. And that was – clearly – better than the alternative.

As the third hour neared its prolonged conclusion, she rose to her feet once more, insistent upon obtaining more caffeine. The following twenty minutes was used to drink coffee in disparaging silence, the gradual growth of the hour inversely cracking the thin veil of hope that had sustained them thus far. The later it became, the less optimistic Jason felt. Surely they would have heard something by now.

The clock was just about to breach the three-and-a-half hour marker when the doctor approached them at last. Spencer had already been on her feet, but her posture stiffened instantaneously as she processed what might come next; there was a clear façade of confidence etched into the delicate features of her ever-thinning face as she fought to come to terms with the worst-case scenario of the impending conversation.

Jason rose to stand beside her, putting one hand comfortingly on her back. She was quivering, much to his expectation. He silently willed some of what little strength he had through this simple contact, hoping to share a fraction of it with her weary heart.

The man introduced himself as Dr. Warren, taking turns to shake both of their hands. His touch was warm compared to the lack of circulation to Jason's own appendages, and he was suddenly aware of how cold the room had gotten over the past few hours.

"We were able to retrieve the bullet," Dr. Warren began, his bushy eyebrows furrowing as he crinkled his forehead. "But he lost a lot of blood. We had to give him an emergency transfusion right after the surgery and spend some time holding our breath to make sure it would take."

"Is he going to be okay?" Jason asked abruptly.

"He's still unconscious, but he's stable. At this point we've done everything we can – when and if he wants to wake up is more or less up to him now."

"How long could it be?" Spencer breathed hoarsely.

"Could be a few hours. Maybe even a few days. The ball is really in his court now."

Jason exchanged a look with Spencer, who seemed to be exuding relief all over the room. She took his hand and squeezed firmly, her eyes glistening with more faith than he had seen from her all night. He hoped her optimism was not premature, for the doctor's careful wording of Toby's condition was still processing in his brain. _When and __**if**_, he had said.

He felt the sudden ominous presence of a dark cloud hovering overhead, carrying all the implications of the morbid possibilities the doctor was not saying aloud. He wasn't sure whether Spencer was oblivious to the possibility, or whether she was intentionally ignoring the subtext to keep herself from falling to pieces. Either way, the sense of foreboding sent a chill cascading down his spine.

"Can I see him?" Spencer asked eagerly, taking a step forward.

"Yes. But just keep in mind…it'll be pretty touch-and-go from here," Dr. Warren added hesitantly, his eyes flickering over Spencer's shoulder to Jason. It was as if he had read his mind. There was a silent message in that brief glance, and Jason understood instantaneously. The doctor was offering a quietly hopeful outlook on Toby's condition for Spencer's sake alone, so as not to alarm her. But with Jason, he was contradicting his own vague prognosis, wordlessly alerting him that he ought to be prepared to console his sister should the situation go from bad to worse.

She nodded fervently in reply, her lips tugging upward in a sad sort of smile. "I know."

Jason wasn't so sure she did.

"All right. Let me just drop these papers off with the receptionist and then you can follow me." With that, Dr. Warren sent Jason one last glance, and then trekked over to the desk at the front of the waiting room.

"Spencer," Jason said quickly, grabbing onto her hand to prevent her from following right away. She turned to him, her eyes alight with naïve curiosity. It was as if a cold hand had reached into his ribcage to squeeze at his heart. The fresh liveliness in her expression had come to be a rather foreign sight over the past several weeks, and its sudden return was startling. He wished he could be pleased to see her looking more like herself, but he could not mitigate the weight that had settled in the pit of his stomach. He was becoming increasingly more frightened with every moment that her expectant spirits might be in vain, and that if Toby's condition worsened, there would be no coming back from it. The higher her hopes ascended, the further she'd have to fall. And the thought of Spencer Hastings being even _more_ incapacitated by grief than she already had been…

Even with all of the thoughts swirling in his brain, he could not find words to express his concern. They merely stood there, staring quietly at one another as he silently prayed with all his might to whomever would listen.

"Give him my best," he said pathetically at last.

There was another pregnant pause that settled between them, widening the gap and perpetuating the sharp contrast of their trains of thought.

"I will," she offered, squeezing his hand a bit in gratitude. She fell in step behind Dr. Warren, and soon disappeared around the corner.

Jason felt his knees buckle from the exhaustion, collapsing back into the chair behind him and ejecting a frustrated sigh past the knot in his throat. Her black hoodie still lay draped over the arm of the chair, forgotten and rejected, and he found himself gazing mindlessly at it for much longer than necessary.

He feared that she had merely moved from one shadow to the next. And all he could do was hope that, by some miracle, there'd be a light in that darkness.

* * *

She hadn't known what to expect when she walked into his hospital room. Part of her, she had to admit, had been idiotically hopeful, imagining that he'd be sitting up and waiting for her as she walked in, a bashful smile donning his perfectly-sculpted features and a shimmer of affection shining in his ocean blue eyes. He would reach out to her and she would fall into his arms, her heart swelling to twice its regular proportion.

But the darkness of the waiting room had followed her here, eclipsing the childish fantasy on repeat in her mind. He was completely still, his eyes obscured by lids too heavy for him to lift. There was a bandage wrapped around his left shoulder to his right hip like a sash. She didn't know why so much dressing was necessary, but figured it must have something to do with keeping the point of impact bound securely on his backside. One hand was outfitted with gauze and punctured with an IV needle to pump in the required pain medication, a pulse oximeter clipped to his index finger. The machines beside him emitted the dull pattern of beeps that echoed the beats of his heart, serving as quite possibly the only reminder that he was actually alive as he lay dormant beneath the eggshell sheets.

She approached his bedside, settling into the chair beside it and wrapping his free hand up in her own. The sensation of his skin brushing against her own provided her with the familiar jolt of electricity that it always had, the ridges of his calloused skin giving the impression of a shield. The sense of security that she was protected in his embrace. She relished in the momentary buzz, reaching to gently brush the hair away from his forehead with her unoccupied hand.

"Hey, baby," she mumbled softly, surprised at how strained her own voice sounded. "I'm here."

Her fingertips drew a tiny pattern at his temple, and she was assailed with a sudden onslaught of memories. The way she had reached up to his face the first time they had made love, gingerly tracing his hair line and attempting to memorize every feature of his face, however miniscule. Taking note of how the roots of his hair were just slightly darker than the rest, creating a gradient not so different from the many layers of his oversized heart. She remembered the depths of his cerulean eyes, inviting her to gaze into the darkest crevasses of his being and to make herself at home amongst all of his hopes and dreams. To weave herself into all of his hopes for the future and anchor herself to his ambitions.

To merge her soul with his, bound for eternity with the trappings of their love.

She felt a sudden balloon of emotion inflating in her chest, and she fought to keep her composure.

"You can't do this to me, you know," she said, her words weakened to whimpers. "You can't make me all those promises and then take them all back. I need you here. With me."

The rise and fall of his frame gave her pause, and she did her damnedest to cling to this small glimpse of hope, like the heart monitor beside them. There was oxygen filtering into his lungs. He was breathing. His blood was pumping. His heart was beating. These were all good signs. They were all reasons to have faith.

It took almost every ounce of strength that she had to feel it, but it was there. It was pushing its way through the hardened soil against all odds, rooting itself in the deepest pits of her soul. The numbness that had surrounded her heart for so long was crumbling away at the blossoming of this new, foreign sensation – the dam being chipped apart to both allow and welcome the waves of emotion that would soon flood her entire being.

She felt suddenly weak with exhaustion, her body trembling at the wave of warmth that rushed through her veins. Everything was coming apart all at once. Everything she had worked so hard to build over the last few weeks. All of her safeguards and protections. They were all coming down, and all she was left with was the feeling of her heart aching and the unexpected stinging in the corners of her eyes.

She was crying. For the first time since she had found the body in the woods, she was feeling something other than complete and utter detachment.

The tears dribbled down the length of her face and dangled precariously from the cliff of her chin. Ordinarily she would have wiped them away impatiently, annoyed at their useless presence.

But now, they felt somehow soothing despite everything else that was going on. They reminded her that she hadn't forgotten how to feel. That everything around her had indeed been a reality, and not the hazy illusion of a dream.

They reminded her that she was alive. That she hadn't completely lost herself in the woods that day.

Yes, the sensation of hope burgeoning in her chest was nearly crippling her with its deconstruction of every wall she had built – but she had never been so relieved in her life to feel the presence of everything all at once. It was suffocating and it damn near incapacitated her – but at the same time, it was quite possibly saving her life.

She was Spencer Hastings, for Christ's sake. And that meant that she had the tools at her disposal to conquer anything, no matter how debilitating. She had come back from emotional upheaval in the past, and she could do it again.

She was strong. And that fortitude, itself, was a huge part of what defined her. Some of it was imbedded into her very being, some of it was drawn from the man she loved. It was a piece of her that had been missing since Toby had left. The piece she had forgotten.

She would not forget it again.

A sob escaped her throat unexpectedly, and soon she found herself crying shamelessly in her arms, gasping for air as her lungs expanded and contracted in the throes of her despair. Her body was racked with exhaustion and disdain, and she could already feel the rims of her eyes swelling from the moisture that poured from their reservoirs.

But despite the terror she felt on Toby's behalf – the concern that she may never see those beautiful blue orbs again…the fact that she was able to feel any of this _at all_ was overwhelmingly liberating.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there, her head in her hands and her emotions stampeding through thickets of barren landscapes in her heart – but when she was finished, one final sob expended from her chest, and she was spent. Her throat was raw from the agony cutting through her vocal chords, her stomach sore from the marathon-esque proportions with which her diaphragm had been exerted. She wiped the last remnants of moisture from her face, unsurprised to feel the bloating of her pores pressed beneath the palms of her hands.

All that was left to do was wait. And perhaps the waiting would be in vain. Maybe all she was waiting for was the imminent arrival of nothing.

But she couldn't imagine waiting for anything more important than this.

* * *

The sunlight poured into their spacious living room, beams dancing across the mahogany furniture and catching a column of dust glinting in its wake. His mother was seated at the piano, her delicate fingertips grazing across the ivory and ebony rectangles in a journey of familiarity. The quiet tune of _Any Time_ reverberating throughout the room was soothing, and brought upon him a sense of total tranquility.

She glanced back at him, her face melting into an affectionate smile. He could not help but return the gesture, coming to stand next to her as she continued through the sheet music. She hardly needed it anymore, to be honest – she played most of the song without ever glancing at the paper in front of her.

"I missed you," he told her quietly, resting a hand on her shoulder. He keenly picked up the familiar scent of lilac and the aged paper of old books as he stood over her, and it reminded him of a time long ago that she would sit at his bedside and read to him every night, tucking him in and chasing all of his demons away with a loving, protective kiss to his forehead.

"I missed you too, my love," she said, the satin of her voice as gentle as ever. "And I'll miss you every day until we meet again."

Her meaning perplexed him. "But I'm here now."

A wistful smile teased her lips as the song came to an end, and she turned to gazed up at him with a loving twinkle in her eyes.

"No," she whispered. "Not yet."

The room began to dissolve around him, like a painting running into blurred, incomprehensible lines in the rain. Another voice spoke to him, and the characteristic rasp of her words nearly brought him to his knees.

It was Spencer.

He began to sprint through the indiscernible blotches of the backdrop surrounding him, barreling toward the echo of her sobs. There was a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. What was wrong? Why was she crying? He needed to reach her – ensure that she was all right.

He searched every room of the house, the sound of her voice growing louder and gaining more clarity. When at long last he pulled open the back door, a blinding light engulfed his entire frame and obscured his vision. Try as he might to make out the world in front of him, he could see nothing. A sudden ache in his shoulder blade became glaringly apparent, and the remainder of his body felt weak and subdued. It even hurt to breathe.

He was lying on his back. There was a quiet beeping noise echoing in his brain, and he realized after a moment that it wasn't in his head. It was coming from a machine somewhere beside him.

His body was cold and his eyelids felt heavy. With what little strength he could muster, he began to slowly pry them open, fighting to make sense of the blurred shapes that danced into his vision.

The first thing he noticed was that he was not in his own bed: he was at a hospital. And with the increasing sharpness that punctuated his shoulder, it was little surprise as to why. He took in a deep, ragged breath, and his memory began to quietly return, seeping into the forefront of his brain like the haze of a dream.

The cemetery. The gunshot.

Spencer.

The muscles in his abdomen tightened as he instinctively made to sit up, but the frailty of his body would simply not allow for it. He was far too weak. Surely they were pumping him full of morphine, or some other comparably disorienting painkiller.

His eyes landed on a mass of curly brown hair, contrasted against the pale white canvas of the sheets beneath it. Her head was resting on her arms, propped on the edge of his bedside. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was even, albeit accompanied by a bit of a rattle, as though her lungs were feeble and strained.

He took a moment to survey her, taking advantage of her slumber to study her serene features. He had not seen her look so peaceful as of late, and the sight was sobering. An unwelcome stinging sensation pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he instinctively reached out to smooth her hair from her face with his good hand. Though the morphine slowed his movements and required careful precision, he was able to find the smooth planes of her hairline, his fingertips gently lingering at her temple. Her skin felt smooth against his own, and he ached to put his arms around her.

"Spence?" he attempted, finding, as expected, that his voice was raspy and thinned from the grogginess of the drugs.

She stirred at the sound of her name, eyes fluttering open and a quiet groan escaping from her lips. She glanced at him sleepily for a moment before realization dawned on her face, and the exhaustion etched in her features instantaneously morphed into shocked uncertainty, like she was trying to determine whether she was hallucinating.

"Toby?"

He did what he could to relay a smile, but he was sure it turned out to be more of a grimace.

Either way, the response was enough to shake her from her reverie. Her forehead crinkled and tears sprang quickly to her eyes, and she choked back a startled sob as she buried her head against his chest in a contorted hug.

He strained every muscle in his body to wrap his good arm around her shoulders, burying his fingers in the mess of curls that spilled from her crown. The rattle in her lungs increased tenfold as she cried into his skin, and with a pang of guilt, he realized why her breathing had sounded so worn.

"Hey, baby," he mumbled in a raspy slur, "s'okay."

And suddenly, despite the unbearable amount of pain that flagged his entire body, he was overcome by an overwhelming sense of peace. He had lived for this moment for weeks. It had been damn near the only thing that kept him going in his darkest hour. It was what sustained him when everything else felt so utterly desolate – when hope became torn and frayed and represented nothing more than a four letter word found somewhere in the font half of the dictionary.

Having her back in his arms, a genuine smile decorating her already-beautiful features, her caramel colored eyes glistening with promises of tomorrow and forgiveness of yesterday.

For her to be his again.

And even though the conditions were not ideal, and he had a brand new hole in his back that would fade but never quite disappear, he couldn't have asked for better medicine. She was Spencer. She was here. And she was with him.

After a few moments she lifted her head to his, trembling lips pressing desperately against his mouth in a brief but longing kiss. She wiped the tears from her face with the palm of her hand and rested her forehead against his temple.

"You scared me," she whispered tearfully.

He turned his face more toward hers, despite the pain that accompanied any angling of his neck. He could hardly move his lips as he spoke, and felt a bit annoyed with the effects of the morphine drowning his insides. "I'm sorry."

She slid her hand up the opposite side of his face and cradled the curve of his jawbone, her fingertips gingerly massaging the hairline at the nape of his neck. He carefully reached up to rest his hand atop hers, his much larger fingers sliding to interlock with her tiny ones.

"I love you," he murmured. He felt his own batch of tears escaping from beneath his eyelids, and could not find the effort to be ashamed of them. Between the bodily ache that echoed throughout his very core and the conflicting sense of complete and utter bliss, it was a wonder he wasn't bawling like an infant.

"I love you, too," she said softly, and he felt his bleeding heart soar at the declaration. He had yearned to hear those words again for so long…

He heard the door open somewhere to his left, and a new, deeper voice reached his eardrums.

"Hey."

He tilted his head a bit to get a decent look at the newcomer, ignoring the pain in the tendons that connected to his shoulder.

Jason was looking down at him with sad appreciation in his teal eyes, offering a feeble smile that looked like it took a great deal of effort. Toby knew instinctively that Spencer's brother had been at her side the entire night, and the relieved sigh that escaped the elder's lips seemed to simultaneously release a great deal of weight that had been dragging him down.

His throat was sore, and he wasn't sure he could talk even if he tried. Instead he feebly lifted a single fist a few inches into the air. Jason caught his meaning immediately, gently bumping his own knuckles against his.

"Glad to see you awake, man."

Toby chuckled a bit, a half-hearted smirk tugging at one side of his mouth. He never thought he'd be so glad to see Jason DiLaurentis. And the fact that Jason was probably thinking precisely the same thing about him was somehow unbearably amusing.

Jason and Spencer began talking, but their words were drowned out by the wooziness of Toby's pain medication. Instead he simply watched the exchange, marveling at the angelic features of Spencer's flawless face. The way her soft brown eyes darted back and forth between those of whomever she spoke to, set high atop two perfectly carved cheekbones. How the smooth planes of her face came to an exquisitely symmetrical meeting place at the point of her chin. The adorable crinkle of her button nose as she verbally worked through something that troubled her.

She had always been stunning. But somehow, the gravity of his near-death experience amplified every miniscule detail of her face. She had never been more beautiful.

Jason turned to him once more, pursing his lips together in quiet determination.

"I'm going to go get your doctor, okay?" he said, setting a supportive hand on Toby's forearm. Toby nodded meekly in reply, and Jason headed toward the door.

Spencer had returned her gaze to him, and he smiled a bit in spite of himself. He wasn't sure what grand karmic credit he had acquired in another lifetime to earn those affectionate chocolate eyes beaming in his direction, intended solely for him.

He loved her with every fiber of his being, and would always do what he could to protect her. He didn't regret taking the bullet for a second. And he would do it again, should they ever cross paths once more down the road.

But he didn't want to think about that. Not right now, anyway. Right now he had Spencer at his side, safe and sound. And the vibrance that had been absent from her eyes for far too long had once again returned. She was herself again. The girl that had needed a safe place to land, once upon a time. The woman who had defied her family in more ways than one to take a chance on a potentially dangerous pariah.

The only person who had ever put just as much on the line for him as he would for her.

She was beside him, unharmed. And she still loved him.

And that was more than he could ever ask for.

When she spoke next, it was like the breath of a whisper as he felt the sleep overtake him once more.

"You should rest. But don't worry. I'll be right here when you wake up."

He allowed his eyelids to flutter shut, and even in the deepest caverns of his subconscious slumber, her face was the only thing he saw in his dreams.

**END**

* * *

_**A/N:** Sooo I don't know if I like it. It feels rather rushed to me. Poo. _

_Oh, and I purposely didn't identify Red Coat directly. I always planned on leaving it open for interpretation. _

_Umm I think that's it. I desperately ask for reviews because I don't get many anymore. Thanks guys!_


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